


Exponentiation

by dracoqueen22



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Cross-Factional Relationships, Fragging for Peace, Hidden Relationships, Knotting, M/M, Repopulation Plans, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, implied mechpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-06-24 08:25:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15626709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: A series of revelatory mathematical calculations lead Optimus Prime and Megatron to a startling conclusion – they’re going extinct. A truce is made, a plan to repopulate is written up, and an all-call for volunteers rings through the cosmos. Several brave warriors line up to take one for the team.





	1. Starscream and Grimlock - Order of Operations

**Author's Note:**

> This work is sponsored by Sadrobochild and it was a joy to write. :)

The war ends with not a grand final battle of epic proportions as the dead lay scattered across the landscape and a single mech stands alone, weeping loss to the heavens.   
  
Instead, it ends with a whimper.   
  
Specifically, Starscream’s. Because he has never in his life seen so much paperwork. Who would have known that peace means boredom, means countless hours spent perched behind a desk and crammed into a chair that’s quite clearly designed as a torture device? Or that he’d actually miss fighting for his life, because wrestling words and articles and punctuation is both exhausting and tedious.  
  
A treaty, he snarls to himself as he trudges through mounds of datapads, and a generous one at that.   
  
Optimus is tired, and Megatron had a ‘coming to Primus’ moment and there they are, shaking hands, agreeing to set terms, living in tense harmony in the ruins of Crystal City.   
  
Starscream’s being a little unfair.   
  
The war, as it is, ends because of math. Shockwave does some calculations and surreptitiously sends them to Prowl, who does some calculations of his own. Both of them, alarmed by their numbers, rush to their respective commanding officers.   
  
Starscream, when no one is looking, steals both of their numbers, and does calculations of  _his_  own and releases a little shriek of outrage when he realizes they are both right. It disgusts him. He should never agree with both Shockwave and Prowl on anything, and yet, here he is, staring at the same numbers, the same terrifying prospect of extinction.   
  
Cybertron and Cybertronians by proxy are at a tipping point. One more major clash could put them on the path to functional extinction. The population point of no return where there’s no hope of reviving their species. They’ll die out. Especially, you know, now that the Matrix is shattered, Vector Sigma is cold and dead, and the Allspark doesn’t exist except in fairy tales.   
  
There are no more hot spots. Cybertron drifts through space like a meteor, the center a cold lump of nothing, and destruction will come when it meets an inmovable object. Gravity will pull Cybertron in and that’s it. No more Cybertron. They won’t even have a planet to fight over.   
  
Upon receipt of the devastating report, Megatron locks himself in his room for a week. He talks to no one. Except Soundwave of course.   
  
Meanwhile, rumor has it, Optimus Prime spends hours pacing the halls when he isn’t cloistered in his own office. He brings in counsel of his own: Prowl, Jazz, Ratchet, Ultra Magnus… Clearly, he’s more interested in listening to his command staff than Megatron.   
  
Starscream is not at all miffed that he’s left out of the decision making process.   
  
Much.   
  
The next thing the rest of the universe knows, Optimus Prime and Megatron stand together and declare a truce, a real one. They shake hands. They smile thinly, a grimace if you ask Starscream. They exchange a single datapad to start setting terms.   
  
That one datapad has now become a stack three feet high. Starscream glares at it balefully. But none despise him more than the one currently in front of him.   
  
‘Plan to Repopulate.’   
  
He should have seen this coming.   
  
It was Jazz’s idea, the little interface-starved lunatic. Sure, the whole thing is completely voluntary. Except that Megatron has told the Decepticons that volunteering is mandatory, whether they carry or sire.   
  
“Find an Autobot you can tolerate or another Decepticon, I don’t care which, just make a sparkling or so help me...”   
  
He doesn’t finish the threat. He doesn’t have to. The threat probably isn’t needed, since those with enough intelligence can see the end of it all and know what’s necessary. If there’s even a smidgen of possibility the Cybertronian race can recover, it has to start now, and everyone has to participate.   
  
Don’t want to muddle up the CNA pool after all. Don’t want any of the rarer spark types to vanish. They need variety, not homogeneity.   
  
Starscream fumes as he flicks the datapad back on. The register had been Prowl’s idea. So helpful that one. You sign up if you’re volunteering whether as carrier or sire or both, and that way everyone knows who is interested.   
  
Starscream is more than a little miffed that only one mech’s taken his bait. He’s the second in command of the Decepticons! Anyone should be honored to sire his little Seekerlet. Except there’s only one name on his list.   
  
Grimlock. An Autobot no less. An Autobot Predacon. Not only that, one who’s rumored to be lacking in everything except raw power.   
  
Starscream sniffs and tosses the datapad onto his desk. It’s an outrage. He doesn’t have to accept the offer. He’s free to choose someone else if he wants. It’s just… Grimlock’s the only one interested in him in return. It’s simultaneously galling and flattering.   
  
He rockets up from his chair, ignoring the stack of paperwork on his desk. Sure, it’s part of his duty to complete it. But this is part of his duty, too. Megatron had been quite clear on that. Everyone must participate in the Procreation Project.   
  
 _Everyone_.   
  
Megatron hasn’t exempted himself. Which is good, because Starscream would have raised quite a stink if he had. But nope, Megatron’s name is on the list as well, and right now, only Decepticons are offering themselves. Megatron hasn’t chosen anyone yet.   
  
It’s only a matter of time.   
  
Like the Pit Starscream is going to let Megatron defeat him in this. Megatron can take his sweet time choosing a partner, and Starscream’s going to boldly proceed. Show that he’s the bravest of Decepticon command.   
  
He’ll lead the way. Like a leader does.   
  
Hah.   
  
Even if his only option so far is Grimlock. The least he can do is meet Grimlock, see if he can tolerate the mech long enough for however many ‘faces it’ll take to spark. After that, no one says he has to mate Grimlock. He can go his separate way if he wants.   
  
Starscream holds his head high, shoulders back, wings arched, and strides from his office with all the pride he can muster. He leaves behind piles of paperwork, and considers that a plus.   
  
He walks out of the building the Decepticons are using as their administrative base, crosses the thin tarmac dividing the two factions, and strides with confidence toward the residential warehouse where all the Autobots have been living. He’s noticed, of course he is, but he’s not armed, and he’s not making threats, so no one tries to drive him off at the end of a blaster.   
  
If he were at all interested in ending the truce in the most destructive of ways, it would be so terribly easy. But there’s no denying Shockwave’s math. Or Prowl’s. Or his own. No use in winning a war if there’s no one left to live on the planet afterward.   
  
Grimlock’s public “address” places him on the bottom floor and down a back hallway, tucked away like the Autobots are trying to forget he exists. Starscream counts doors, refusing to feel uneasy despite being surrounded by the enemy. He can take care of himself.   
  
He presses the chime as soon as he finds the right door, so he can’t talk himself out of it, and shifts from foot to foot as he waits for an answer. Grimlock’s not on shift right now. He should be here.   
  
A moment drags by. Starscream glances up the long, empty hallway. He could still change his mind. Plenty of time to run…   
  
The door swings open. “What you want?” the inhabitant growls, looming over Starscream effortlessly, his visor a baleful red and the sheer size of him enough to intimidate.   
  
“Are you this polite to all your guests?” Starscream demands archly. He crosses his arms, forcing a look of boredom on his face. “You signed my register, dinobot. I’m here to collect.”   
  
Grimlock stares at him, and if Starscream has to guess, he’d say the dinobot is dumbfounded. “You… Starscream... interested?” he says slowly, carefully. Maybe because his processor is so thick he has to pick out the words one by one.   
  
Oh, Primus, His sparkling is going to be an idiot.   
  
“Why else would I be here?” He taps his foot impatiently. “Are you going to let me in or have you changed your mind?”   
  
Grimlock says nothing. He steps aside in open invitation, so Starscream gathers his dignity and enters Grimlock’s room, bracing himself for what he might find. A mess, perhaps. Something primitive and dirty and--  
  
Starscream’s engine gives a little thrum. His mouth goes dry. Primus, does he want to lay on that berth. It looks so plush and inviting, and a far cry from the harsh, flat planes of the berth he calls home. The room is warm and cozy with the sweet scent of rust candies floating on the air.   
  
“I didn’t think you’d actually accept my offer.”   
  
“Well, first come, first served after all,” Starscream says dismissively, still overtaken by the sheer comfort permeating every inch of the suite.   
  
Wait.   
  
He pauses and slowly spins back toward Grimlock. “What did you say?”   
  
Grimlock shuts the door and cocks his head. “You mean I’m your only choice because my name is the only one on the list.”   
  
“Why are you talking like that?” Starscream splutters, pointing at Grimlock’s chest. “I thought--”  
  
“That I was an idiot?” Grimlock snorts, and a gleam of something flickers across his visor. “It was an effective ploy, I have to admit. Not even Optimus knows how intelligent we really are.” He moves closer, his field preceding him.   
  
It washes over Starscream, warm and tingling. There’s not just interest in it, oh no. There’s desire, too. Genuine want. It’s powerful and intelligent, like Grimlock has kept himself leashed all along, and now this is the real him.   
  
He swallows down a moan, it’s so dizzying. “That’s so calculating,” Starscream says, and cycles a ventilation, drawing his lips into a slow, sliding smirk. “I have to say, you’re truly a mech after my own spark.”   
  
“And other things, too. If you’ll let me.” Grimlock sweeps into a shallow bow and reaches for Starscream’s hand, only to draw it up to his mouthplate.   
  
Starscream’s vents catch. “Why?” he asks, drawn in by the cadence of Grimlock’s voice, the deep rumble of it, and the delicate way he holds Starscream’s hand as though he’s something to be admired.   
  
Grimlock rumbles, and Starscream swears it vibrates right through to his spark. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs. His mouthplate opens, revealing lips scarred by battle, but still soft as they brush over Starscream’s knuckles. “Dangerous. Intelligent. Stubborn.”   
  
Starscream licks his lips. “Why Grimlock,” he purrs, though his spark pulses double-time at the compliments. “Have you been secretly harboring lust for me?”   
  
“Yes.”   
  
Starscream’s optics widen. Heat thrums through his lines. He expects subterfuge, a refusal to admit something the Decepticons would categorize as weakness, but no. Grimlock has no fear of weakness. He lays it all out like he’s unafraid of rejection.   
  
“Oh,” Starscream says, briefly struck dumb. Grimlock is still nuzzling his fingertips as though they are precious and worthy.   
  
“The war’s over.” Grimlock moves another step closer, into the densest layer of Starscream’s field, all heat and charge and promise. “There’s no rule saying I can’t pursue you anymore. So I want to. That is, if you’ll let me.”   
  
Starscream works his intake. Heat pools southward, his valve filling with slick, his spike pulsing in earnest. “I’m not easily won,” he says.   
  
“I like a challenge.” Grimlock rests his free hand on Starscream’s hip, fingertips at first, and then his whole palm once Starscream doesn’t refuse him. “I like earning a prize.”   
  
Starscream chuckles. “So I’m a prize now?”   
  
“The very best one.” Grimlock purrs and a nudge from his palm brings their frames into delicious, sizzling contact. His engine rumbles, vibrating against Starscream’s frame.   
  
“I’ve always admired you,” Grimlock continues, his words like a sweet seduction as they slither in Starscream’s audials. “It would be my honor to create with you, Starscream.”   
  
A moan catches in Starscream’s intake. His valve quivers. “All right,” he manages as Grimlock mouths the tip of his index finger, the hot slide of his glossa making Starscream weak in the knees. “Then let’s call this your audition.”   
  
Grimlock’s fingers press in on his spinal strut, finding a sensor cluster that sends a wave of pleasure through Starscream’s frame. “What’s your preference?”   
  
Starscream blinks. “I… what?”   
  
“Your preference.” Grimlock presses a kiss to his palm, ex-vents hot and damp over it. “Do you want to carry? Sire?” A hand sweeps across Starscream’s aft, blatantly fondling him.   
  
Starscream’s vents stutter. “I… you’re actually asking me?”   
  
“I don’t care either way as long as it means you let me have you.” Grimlock licks Starscream’s palm, and a wave of  _want_  makes Starscream tilt forward against him, his fingers curling against Grimlock’s seams.   
  
“Primus,” Starscream moans. “Take me. For the love of Cybertron, I want you in my valve.”   
  
Grimlock chuckles, dark and rumbling, but it’s amused, not taunting. His hands sweep to Starscream’s hips, lifting him up with such ease. Desire pours into Starscream’s spark as his thighs notch around Grimlock’s waist, and he immediately feels the scorching heat of Grimlock’s interface panel against his own.   
  
“I can do that,” Grimlock says, and leans down, nuzzling their cheeks together. “Do you have a position preference?”   
  
Starscream arches his back, grinding against Grimlock’s panel. He lets his own open with a groan of relief, lubricant immediately dripping against Grimlock.   
  
“Whatever gets you in me fastest,” he says.   
  
Grimlock’s engine rumbles. His field pours over Starscream’s in a tide of lust. There’s a click and something hard and heated rubs Starscream’s valve folds, sliding thickly over his swollen exterior node.   
  
“This?” Grimlock asks, the thick of him parting Starscream’s pleats, taunting him with the idea of penetration. “Are you sure?”   
  
Starscream licks his lips and rolls down, catching the head of Grimlock’s spike with his rim and painting it in lubricant. “I’ve taken shuttles,” he pants. “I know I can handle you.”   
  
Grimlock chuckles and spins them around. Starscream’s back hits the plush berth, his wings cushioned by the thick padding. Grimlock’s palms hit the mattress to either side of his head, his groin notched between the vee of Starscream’s thighs. His visor gleams at Starscream, hot with desire. And he rolls his hips, grinding himself on Starscream’s valve, painting his spike in Starscream’s slick.   
  
“You’re sure?” He leans down, lips brushing over Starscream’s.   
  
Starscream snatches him by the back of his head, yanking Grimlock into a fierce kiss, tangling their glossa together. He slams his heels against the back of Grimlock’s upper thighs and cants his hips, catching Grimlock’s spike with his rim. He shivers as the first few inches slide into him, igniting his nodes in a wave of heat.   
  
“Positive,” Starscream growls against Grimlock’s mouth.   
  
Grimlock growls in turn. He shifts his weight, angles himself, and his spike slides so deep, it tastes every last one of Starscream’s nodes. A moan ekes out of Starscream’s intake. His backstrut arches. Pleasure sparks through his lines, and he surges toward overload like a new adult discovering his interface drive.   
  
“You’re perfect,” Grimlock groans as he presses his forehead to Starscream’s, audibly cycling several ventilations as his spike throbs within Starscream, buried to the hilt.   
  
Starscream moans. “Of course I am,” he manages without stuttering. He tightens his thighs around Grimlock’s hips, rolling up to grind that spike against his ceiling node. Grimlock’s so thick, his spike a thing of ridges and nubs and each one seems to catch and caress his internal nodes.   
  
White light dances across the back of his optical feed. A shock of almost-overload radiates through his valve, and he clutches hungrily at Grimlock’s spike, demanding more.   
  
Grimlock pants, hot puffs of ventilation ghosting against Starscream’s face. “This is going to be embarrassingly short, I’m afraid.” He rocks forward, circles his hips.   
  
“I’m right there with you,” Starscream admits. He seeks out Grimlock’s lips, mouthing hungrily at the scarred jaw. He tastes each welded line, licks the length and breadth of the scars, memorizing them with the tip of his glossa.   
  
Grimlock’s lips slant over his, the kiss hungry and deep. He’s growling full scale now, and each vibration seems to catch right on Starscream’s spark. He moves harder and faster against Grimlock, his nub catching on Grimlock’s spike housing and sending zings of pleasure through his sensor net.   
  
Grimlock’s mouth buries against his intake, lapping at his cables. “I have a knot,” he pants into Starscream’s intake. “Can I--”  
  
“Yes.” Starscream claws at Grimlock’s back, his hips rising to meet each one of Grimlock’s thrusts.   
  
A growl vibrates his intake. Denta graze his cables, restrained power in the delicate touch, and Starscream whimpers. Pleasure sparks up and down his valve, turning into a hot coil in his tanks. Grimlock thrusts into him, bearing him down into the berth, once, twice, and on the third withdraw, his spike catches on the rim of Starscream’s valve.   
  
Lights explode in the back of his optics. Starscream’s head tosses back on a strangled cry as he overloads, the growing bulge at the base of Grimlock’s spike grinding on a ring of internal sensors and extending his release. He thrashes beneath Grimlock, talons sinking into a seam, the scent of energon tasting the air.   
  
“--so beautiful. I’m the luckiest mech on the planet.”   
  
Grimlock’s voice cuts through the haze of pleasure. Starscream trembles as Grimlock swells inside of him, throbbing a heavy beat against Starscream’s nodes, keeping his valve on the knife’s edge of release.   
  
Grimlock’s words puff hotly over his intake, little kisses dotted like murmurs of worship on Starscream’s plating.   
  
Starscream’s thighs tremble. He pulls himself further onto Grimlock’s spike, feels it and the knot notch firmly in place, before a full shudder wracks Grimlock’s frame.   
  
He nuzzles Starscream’s face. “I’m going to keep you.” Grimlock’s hips move in little jerks, his knot swollen in place, spike throbbing a beat tangible over Starscream’s mesh lining.   
  
Starscream manages a laugh, digging his talons in deep. “Keep me?” He rises up to meet each rock of Grimlock’s hips, the knot massaging an inner ring of nodes to a small overload. “You’re mine now, dinobot. Just try and get rid of me.”   
  
Grimlock’s desire pours over him in a hot wave. His mouth seals over Starscream’s, glossa pushing inside like a claim. He jerks, hot spurts of transfluid spilling inside Starscream, painting his valve in it.   
  
Starscream moans into the kiss. Grimlock’s hot ex-vents puff against his lips. He mouths Starscream’s jaw, his intake, the curve toward his audial. His hips move in stuttered bursts, more and more spurts of transfluid filling every nook and cranny, pushing at the port to his gestational tank.   
  
Another shudder ripples through Starscream’s frame. He overloads, head tipped back for Grimlock’s attention, and his tank relents, cycling open to admit the tide of Grimlock’s transfluid. There’s so much of it.   
  
Starscream whimpers, holding tighter, little overloads rocking him with pleasure until he can’t think, between one roll of ecstasy and the next. He’s holding tight to Grimlock, thoughts spinning, their frames locked together.   
  
“You’re gonna… spark me up… at this rate,” Starscream gasps out, spinal strut arching, fingers turned to claws that draw energon, not that Grimlock seems to mind.   
  
A rumble of a laugh vibrates against Starscream’s intake. “That was the idea.”   
  
“I’m not p-protesting,” Starscream manages as his frame rolls up against Grimlock’s, his valve throbbing and squeezing as his gestational tank fills with transfluid.   
  
Primus, is Grimlock emptying his entire transfluid tank? Probably so, given Starscream can feel the strain of his gestational system, can feel the way it pushes at his internals, bows the thinner plating of his abdomen.   
  
“Good.” Grimlock nuzzles him again, his field a warm and cozy embrace around Starscream’s. His hands slide down Starscream’s sides, cradling him like something precious.   
  
He kisses Starscream again, slower this time, gentler. Like he wants to savor, like he’s trying to pour every ounce of seduction and request into the kiss. Like he’s tasting Starscream bit by bit, the sweetest treat, and Starscream melts into it. He feels cherished, wanted, admired… things he hasn’t felt in centuries.   
  
Grimlock’s definitely passed the audition. He’s won the starring role.   
  
Starscream’s keeping him forever. He’s already marked Grimlock with his claws. Too late now, poor mech.   
  
There’s no escape.   
  


* * *


	2. Be Careful with Exponents - Deadlock and Hot Rod

Hot Rod has never been more nervous in his entire functioning. That includes the time he first stepped onto a battlefield, and the first time he had to shoot another mech to save his own spark. Back then, it had been fear, maybe terror. But this anxiety? It’s anticipation more than anything. That and the worry he’s going to screw everything up.   
  
He paces around his quarters, smaller than everyone else’s, but at least he doesn’t have to share. It’s his and his alone, which is a novelty after spending the whole war sharing with someone else. Sharing berths, sharing private spaces, sharing everything. He’d recognized the necessity of it, but he’d always hated it.   
  
He’s so glad the war is over. More than that, he’s thrilled about Prowl’s new plan. The Procreation Project? Hot Rod’s been wanting to carry his whole life! Before the war broke out, he had dreams of having a family some day, though most mechs preferred the new methods of hot spots and Vector Sigma. Easy, no mess stuff.   
  
There’s something about getting filled with transfluid that drives him wild. Not that he’d ever admit it aloud. It’s one of his dirty little secrets. Just like, um, his relationship with Deadlock. Or maybe rivalry is the better word for it?   
  
Hot Rod’s not sure when their little fights started to become fun instead of life-threatening, when they started to meet outside of the framework of battle. They never did anything. Just raced sometimes. Sparred. Shared energon or supplies, but never intel. Hot Rod knew better than that. But he’s always harbored a little something deep in his spark. He’s always wondered what it would be like to kiss Deadlock.   
  
Now’s his chance.   
  
He’s the first Autobot to volunteer for Prowl’s project. But he ignores every designation offered on his list until the one he really wanted pops up. Hot Rod can’t click ‘accept’ fast enough, and apparently, Deadlock’s been waiting on the other end, because the ‘connection confirmed’ receipt hits his inbox a few minutes later.   
  
Deadlock’s supposed to be here any minute now. They’d arranged this date days ago. Hot Rod hasn’t been able to stop thinking about him since. Even now, his valve is already hot and ready, lubricant pooling at his panel, his spike throbbing. He’d self-service, if Deadlock wasn’t already on his way.   
  
Primus, he can’t wait.   
  
His door chimes.   
  
Hot Rod startles. His spoiler flicks upward. He rushes to the door before he catches himself and forces a ventilation cycle or two.   
  
‘Calm down, Roddy,’ he tells himself. ‘No need to act like a ‘face-starved idiot.’   
  
He gathers his composure and opens the door, just as it chimes again. Sure enough, Deadlock stands on the other side, bigger, badder, sexier. He’s grinning, full of lazy grace, as he looks Hot Rod up and down.   
  
“Hey sexy,” he drawls as he pushes out of his lean. “Gonna let me in?”   
  
Hot Rod’s jaw drops.   
  
“What happened?” Hot Rod asks, aghast.   
  
Deadlock’s armor is a map of dings and scrapes. There’s a smear of fresh energon on his shoulder, and his lower lip is swollen.   
  
He smirks. “Oh. Barricade and I had a little disagreement over who should be allowed to court you first.” His glossa flicks over his lips, cleaning up a drip of energon. “I won.”  
  
A shiver dances down Hot Rod’s backstrut. “But I chose you,” he says, maybe a bit dumbly. “So it doesn’t matter anyway.”   
  
“Mm. It matters to me.” Deadlock’s gaze turns molten, and he looks Hot Rod up and down again, the glance as hot and heavy as a grope. “I want everyone to know that you’re mine.”   
  
Hot Rod swallows over a lump in his intake. He steps back so Deadlock can come inside. “Is that so?”   
  
“It is.” Deadlock ducks a little to come in – Hot Rod’s room is so painfully small – and takes a look around. “You’ve always been mine, true. But now I get to make it official.” He glances over his shoulder. “Am I wrong?”   
  
Hot Rod slams the door shut and locks it. “No,” he breathes, and his valve clenches hard. He presses his thighs together to keep his panel shut.   
  
Deadlock tilts his head and then he stalks Hot Rod, backing him against the door. One knee nudges between Hot Rod’s legs. One hand braces above Hot Rod’s shoulder. The other palms Hot Rod’s abdomen, right where his gestational tank rests behind his grill.   
  
“You’ll carry for me, hot stuff?” Deadlock asks, his voice better a purr, one that rolls through Hot Rod’s audials.   
  
He swallows a moan. He clutches at Deadlock’s shoulders, feeling the pressure of Deadlock’s knee against his panel. “That was the plan.”   
  
Deadlock leans closer, his lips inches away, his field pressing against Hot Rod’s. “Your field is as hot as napalm, Autobot.” He brushes their cheeks together as his hand slides down Hot Rod’s belly toward his groin, fingertips brushing over the domed panel concealing his spike.   
  
Hot Rod whimpers. His head knocks back against the door as his fingers dig into Deadlock’s seams. “So’s yours,” he pants, grasping for any thread of composure that hasn’t melted out of his audials and left him an incoherent mess.   
  
Deadlock chuckles against his audial, dark and lecherous. “That’s what you do to me.” He strokes Hot Rod’s panels, and then dips between his thighs, circling the heat of Hot Rod’s valve array. “You’re leaking.”   
  
Hot Rod’s panel snaps open, despite his numerous overrides. He moans as Deadlock immediately moves to touch him around the swollen rim of his valve, thumb brushing the puffy anterior node. Hot Rod’s hips jerk. He rides the pressure of Deadlock’s thigh, the flitting glances of his fingers.   
  
“Oh, Primus, stop teasing me,” he groans.   
  
Deadlock presses his face into the crook of Hot Rod’s neck, lips and denta teasing along his cables. “Should we do round one here?” he breathes, hot and wet, his glossa tracing a central energon line. “Against the door? Where everyone can hear you moaning my name?”   
  
One finger slides up into Hot Rod, curling to stroke the line of sensors just behind his rim. Hot Rod gasps. His valve throbs. Primus, but he’s already so close to overload.   
  
“I think you like the idea of that,” Deadlock purrs. His thumb circles Hot Rod’s node, over and over again, and stars burst behind Hot Rod’s optics.   
  
“I’m gonna-- I’m gonna--” He breaks off into a keen, back of his head hitting the door again, hips riding the motion of Deadlock’s fingers.   
  
Deadlock mouths an audial. “Do it,” he growls, the vibrations rattling through Hot Rod’s processor. “Overload for me, sweetspark.” Another finger slides into Hot Rod and lubricant squelches, there’s so much of it.   
  
He’d be embarrassed if he wasn’t so turned on. If pleasure hadn’t surged through his lines, through his sensor net. Hot Rod moans, fingers curled into hooks on Deadlock’s armor, his frame jerking against the door as release pours through him. His valve clenches down on Deadlock’s fingers, and charge crackles through his lines.   
  
“Good mech.” Deadlock’s mouth seals over Hot Rod’s, glossa plunging into his mouth, less a kiss than a claim.   
  
Hot Rod makes a noise he can’t define. He tries to tug Deadlock closer, his processor spinning. The fingers vanish from his valve, and he whimpers. But then there are hands on his hips, curving around to his thighs. He’s being lifted, pressed against the wall, and then he’s filled, Deadlock sliding the length of him into Hot Rod in one slow, firm push.   
  
Hot Rod’s backstrut arches. His ankles snap against the back of Deadlock’s thighs, his spoiler clattering against the door. He pants over Deadlock’s lips, processor spinning, valve spasming around Deadlock’s spike as ecstasy lights up his sensor net. His head knocks back as he lets out a cry.   
  
“You’re gorgeous,” Deadlock breathes over him, his field fierce and hot as it surges against Hot Rod’s. “You feel amazing around me, hot stuff.”   
  
Hot Rod pants. “Yeah? And you feel amazing inside me.”   
  
Deadlock chuckles against his intake, his pointed denta scraping delicately over the sensitive cables. “Always knew it would be like this, you and me. We’re gonna be incredible together. You know that right?”   
  
Hot Rod’s grip tightens. His valve spasms, roaring toward the edge of ecstasy, but not quite there. Deadlock thrusts into him, so deep, grinding Hot Rod between himself and the door.   
  
“Frag yeah,” Hot Rod moans. His spike surges free, the tip rubbing over Deadlock’s abdomen, leaving streaks of pre-fluid behind. “Come on, ‘Lock. Harder.”   
  
Deadlock growls into his audial, the primal sound of it making Hot Rod’s spinal strut tingle. “Don’t test me, Roddy. I don’t want to break a little thing like you.”   
  
“I can take it!” Hot Rod tightens his thighs, knocks his ankles against the back of Deadlock’s knees. “Leave my paint on the door. Make me scream your name. Make everyone know who I belong to.”   
  
Deadlock’s engine roars. He pumps up into Hot Rod, grinding so deep his spike tastes Hot Rod’s ceiling node. Charge leaps between their arrays, crackling like electric fire in Hot Rod’s sensor node. He gnaws on his bottom lip, so close to overload he can taste it, and the way Deadlock throbs inside of him, he’s gotta be, too.   
  
“You’re mine,” Deadlock presses their cheeks together, his voice a hot pant against Hot Rod’s audial. “I’ve wanted to claim you for centuries, Roddy. Wanted to leave my mark on you so you can’t ever drive away from me again.”   
  
Hot Rod moans and clutches him tighter. “Then do it,” he demands, slamming himself down on Deadlock’s spike. His internals knot up with hot tension.   
  
Deadlock’s mouth seals over his, fanged denta a sharp prick over Hot Rod’s lips, his glossa plunging inside. Hot Rod whines into the kiss, his back and spoiler scraping against the door. Deadlock’s hands on his hips tighten to the point of armor creaking, and then he yanks Hot Rod onto his spike as he overloads, spurting hot and crackling deep into Hot Rod.   
  
Overload roars through Hot Rod’s frame, shooting electric fire through his lines. He spurts against Deadlock’s belly, his valve clamping down tight as though trying to keep Deadlock trapped inside him. And maybe he is. Keep them tied together so he doesn’t have to watch Deadlock drive into the night ever again.   
  
The kiss softens. Hot Rod’s fans whirr as his engine downshifts to an idle, his forehead pressing to Deadlock’s, their ex-vents exchanging.   
  
Hot Rod sucks in a shuddery ventilation. “Again,” he demands against Deadlock’s lips. He rocks down onto Deadlock, stirring the still firm spike in his valve. “Unless you got somewhere to be.”   
  
Deadlock chuckles. “Hold tight, spitfire.”   
  
Like he has any plan on letting go.   
  
Deadlock’s grip shifts to Hot Rod’s aft. He grabs hold and spins, staggering toward Hot Rod’s berth. Hot Rod clings to him, shivering as each step jostles Deadlock’s spike, making his inner nodes sing. His back and spoiler hits the plush surface before Deadlock rolls him, and Hot Rod ends up on top, his thighs framing the girth of Deadlock’s spike.   
  
Hot Rod rocks forward, his node rubbing up the length, a crackle of charge making him moan. “Round two?” he asks as he braces his hands on Deadlock’s abdomen, rutting his valve lips over Deadlock’s spike again and again. He loves the slow drag of the hot length on his puffy folds.   
  
“As many rounds as you’ll give me, lovely,” Deadlock says with a fanged smirk, his hands smoothing up Hot Rod’s thighs. His knees knock against Hot Rod’s back as he draws his legs up. “We got all night.”   
  
“Longer than that.” Hot Rod rises up and catches Deadlock’s spike with the rim of his valve. “Right?”   
  
Deadlock licks his lips. He cradles Hot Rod’s hips. “Frag yeah,” he growls and his hips buck, teasing the inner rim of Hot Rod’s valve. “Never letting you go, Roddy-mech. Mine forever.”   
  
Hot Rod’s spinal strut shivers. He sinks down, taking Deadlock deep, moaning as the change in position completely changes the angle, touching previously ignored sensors. His spoiler flicks in a little dance.   
  
“Good,” Hot Rod pants.   
  
Deadlock grins. He lifts a hand, fingers crooked at Hot Rod. “Come here, Roddy,” he says. “Wanna kiss you.”   
  
Hot Rod’s internals tighten with heat. He shifts forward, his lips brushing over Deadlock’s, and the spike again touches something sensitive within him. He shudders, pleasure sparking through his lines, as Deadlock’s hand cups gently around the back of his head. He pulls Hot Rod in for a nuzzle, so soft and sweet, almost cognitively dissonant for how rough and tumble Deadlock could be.   
  
“You’re going soft on me,” Hot Rod says.   
  
Deadlock laughs, his free hand squeezing Hot Rod’s hip. He bucks up, spike grinding on Hot Rod’s ceiling node. “Not where it counts, lovely.” He seals their lips together, glossa slipping carefully inside, tasting the textures of Hot Rod’s mouth.   
  
Hot Rod sinks into the kiss, clutching Deadlock’s head carefully, his hips moving in little rocks on Deadlock’s spike. Primus, this is so perfect. This is everything he’s ever wanted.   
  
He’s not going to get any happier than this moment.   
  
Well, until he gets sparked anyway.   
  
Hot Rod can’t wait.   
  


* * *


	3. Thundercracker and Bumblebee - A Sum of Parts

“Have I told you how glad I am you came back?”   
  
“Twice already.” Thundercracker chuckles as he nuzzles the top of Bumblebee’s head. His lips brush over a sensitive horn, but don’t linger. For now. “But it’s nice to hear it again.”   
  
Bumblebee curls closer to him, his field wrapping around Thundercracker like a secondary embrace, his frame warm and his engine thrumming. This, right here, is the reason Thundercracker ventured back to Cybertron. No other. When he’d received the all-call return, Thundercracker had debated ignoring it. What if it is false? What if the truce fails like so many before it? What if he finds himself caught up in another battle, another episode of horrendous, pointless destruction?   
  
What if?   
  
He’d let curiosity take him back to Cybertron. He promised himself he’d stay low, stay out of sight, try and get a read on the state of the planet, and decide then. He’d seen two factions on opposite sides of a city. Weapons were laid aside. A recurring broadcast outlined the terms of the truce and the Procreation Project. An ambient buzz of hope lay over the entire city.   
  
And then Bumblebee’s voice crackled through his comm.   
  
“Hey, Thunder,” Bumblebee said. “I’ve got a berth for you if ever feel like coming home.”   
  
Home.   
  
The word rocketed through his spark like a blaster shot, sent him bobbing mid-flight. He wanted with a longing so intense it took his vents away.   
  
Thundercracker flew out of sight from Crystal City, and perched in an abandoned aerie. He watched Cybertron. He took in the devastation. He considered his options. And then he followed the call of his spark, and Bumblebee’s voice, home. Just this once, he’d put his faith in hope. This one last time.   
  
Now here they are, wrapped together in Bumblebee’s berth, one he must have requested with Thundercracker in mind because it’s far too large for a minibot alone. Bumblebee’s vents rattle. His armor is pitted and scored. From here, Thundercracker can see his cane, propped up against a desk. Sometimes, it’s hard to remember that Bumblebee is as old as he is. Perhaps even older.   
  
“Are you planning on staying?” Bumblebee asks.   
  
Thundercracker doesn’t miss the yearning in his voice. It probably matches his own.   
  
“If this truce is sincere, then yes.” Thundercracker strokes a hand down Bumblebee’s back, fingers tracing an old battle wound. “Are you asking because of Prowl’s repopulation plan?”  
  
Bumblebee chuckles. “You know me so well.” He stirs and rises up, meeting Thundercracker’s optics. “But you know, if we do participate…”   
  
“I’ll have to carry,” Thundercracker finishes for him. His spark does a little flip of excitement. “I don’t mind.”   
  
“Really?”   
  
Thundercracker brushes his thumb over Bumblebee’s lips. “Would you believe me if I told you I’ve always wanted to carry?”   
  
“I would. It seems to be a Seeker trait.” Bumblebee cracks into a grin, probably referencing both Starscream and Skywarp, both of whom are already sparked. Or maybe that’s because dinobots are so particularly fertile. “I’m just surprised you’d want to carry for me. I mean, I am--”  
  
“A minibot?” Thundercracker arches an orbital ridge and shifts so he can pull Bumblebee closer, pressing their foreheads together. “What you are makes no difference. You’re the one I love.”   
  
Bumblebee’s field pushes at him, vibrating with warmth. “And won’t that horrify everyone?”   
  
“We’ve been killing each other for millennia. If knowing we can love each other is what terrifies everyone, I worry for the future of our people,” Thundercracker says dryly. He brushes their noses together. “So yes. I’ll carry for you.”   
  
Bumblebee’s engine purrs. “Good.” His lips brush over Thundercracker’s. “Because you know how much I love to make you moan for me.”   
  
A thrill dances through Thundercracker’s spark, and sends a surge of charge through his lines. “Is that so?” he asks lightly, trying not to show how very suddenly aroused he is.   
  
“Mm hm. We can start now if you like. It might take a few tries.” Bumblebee chuckles and shifts, nudging his way between Thundercracker’s thighs with insistent presses of his knees. “I’m not a dinobot. But you know what they say, practice makes perfect.”   
  
Thundercracker shivers. “You’ll see no protest from me.”   
  
“I thought so.” Bumblebee’s lips hover over his, tempting him with a kiss. “I love how your optics darken to a most beautiful blue when you want me. They are a few shades shy of your paint, you know.”   
  
“I did not miss how much of a tease you were,” Thundercracker groans. He grips Bumblebee’s hips, trying to push him down, toward the heat growing behind Thundercracker’s panel.  
  
Bumblebee resists, much stronger than he looks. “It’s called foreplay, love.” He seals their lips together, glossa slipping into Thundercracker’s mouth. He kisses slowly, languidly, like they have all the time in the world.   
  
Which now they do. Now that the war isn’t hanging over their heads and peace is a real possibility. Thundercracker is here to stay so he supposes they can savor all they want now.   
  
It’s an intoxicating though.   
  
Bumblebee’s always been like this, one to relish, even when they didn’t truly have the time for it. He’s always been more interested in pleasuring Thundercracker, even if meant having to drive away unsatisfied. He’s exceptionally giving, or maybe it’s a kink of his, who knows. Either way, Thundercracker has benefited in spades over the decades.   
  
Bumblebee’s lips wander away, following the curve of Thundercracker’s jaw, down and around, past his audials, to the hollow of his intake. “You smell like the sky,” Bumblebee murmurs as he licks and nuzzles, stirring Thundercracker’s sensor net.   
  
“Well, I am a Seeker,” Thundercracker replies. He fists the covers and sinks into the sensation. He knows better than to try and rush Bumblebee.   
  
The minibot has always had his own pace. Thundercracker can only lay back and enjoy.   
  
Bumblebee chuckles. “And a pretty one at that. The prettiest.”   
  
“Now I know you’re just flattering me.”   
  
Bumblebee looks up from mouthing the edge of Thundercracker’s cockpit. “You think?”   
  
“Mm hm.” A shiver of arousal throbs hot and heavy through Thundercracker’s lines. “Starscream’s the prettiest. Everyone knows it.”   
  
“Mmm. Well, to each their own.” Bumblebee licks the seam of Thundercracker’s cockpit and shimmies further down, mapping each seam with his glossa. “Personally, you’re my favorite.”   
  
Thundercracker licks his lips. “Your opinion is biased.”   
  
Fingers trace his seams, and charge crackles up, nipping at Bumblebee’s fingertips. Thundercracker swallows a moan.   
  
“When you squirm like this for me, how can you be anything but gorgeous?” Bumblebee asks as he presses a kiss to Thundercracker’s abdomen, his hands making broad sweeps, painting lines of pleasure over Thundercracker’s armor. “I love to watch you, Thunder. Love the way you twist and writhe for me.”   
  
Heat throbs through Thundercracker’s lines. It stains his face. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the worship in Bumblebee’s words, like he has to make Thundercracker feel desired in every way. It’s seduction in itself.   
  
Thundercracker’s head tips back against the berth. “We’ve not seen each other in years, and you’re still going to take your time.”   
  
“Of course.” Bumblebee ex-vents, hot and damp over Thundercracker’s interface panel. “Open for me?”   
  
Spike and valve bare themselves without a second thought. A brief puff of air teases the damp tip of his spike and then the gentlest of kisses graces his anterior node. Thundercracker garbles an untranslatable sound, and his fingers twist in the berth sheets.   
  
“There you are,” Bumblebee murmurs. The flat of his glossa slides over Thundercracker’s valve, tracing the rim, teasing the cluster of sensitive nodes at the lower edge of it.   
  
Thundercracker shivers. His thighs tremble where they press against Bumblebee’s shoulders. “I’m nothing special,” he says.   
  
Bumblebee licks him, his glossa pushing deep, before he laps over Thundercracker’s nub with the tip of his glossa. “You’re gorgeous,” he corrects, and he buries his face against Thudnercracker’s valve, licking and sucking and worshiping with evident enjoyment.   
  
Pleasure shoots through Thundercracker’s lines like lightning. His spike throbs, and he closes a hand around it before he thinks twice. Bumblebee’s words have always been a seduction, and now’s no different because he sounds so certain, so matter-of-fact. As if his observation is a universal truth.   
  
Water is wet. All suns die. And Thundercracker is beautiful.   
  
He shivers, heels digging into the berth. Bumblebee’s mouth makes lewd, wet sounds against his valve. He licks and sucks until Thundercracker drips with lubricant, his valve pulsing hungry. His glossa pushes into Thundercracker’s valve, as deep as he can reach, and Thundercracker’s calipers flutter.   
  
Thundercracker squeezes his spike, stroking himself, sweeping his thumb over the tip. He’s not sure if he wants to delay release, or encourage it. He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, his free hand tangling in the berth covers.   
  
Bumblebee wraps his lips around Thundercracker’s nub and gives it a suck. Thundercracker looses a strangled cry, his backstrut arching, charge a surging tide through his sensornet. His nub throbs. His valve ripples. More fluid dribbles from the tip of his spike.   
  
“Mm,” Bumblebee hums, the sound vibrating over Thundercracker’s array. “You taste sweet.”   
  
Thundercracker huffs a laugh. “I taste the same as everyone else.”   
  
Bumblebee mouthes a firm pressure around Thundercracker’s swollen node and Thundercracker jerks. He looks down, and Bumblebee smirks at him, all Autobot-bright optics, his mouth visibly slick with Thundercracker’s lubricant.   
  
“Better than,” Bumblebee corrects and he shifts, crawling up Thundercracker’s frame as far as he can reach, two fingers slipping into Thundercracker’s valve in his wake. They crook, pressing hard over the nodes on the inner rim.   
  
Thundercracker jerks, head tossing back, as overload tears through his frame. His spike dribbles, valve clamping tight, trapping Bumblebee’s fingers. He pants heavy ventilations through the pleasure, and then he’s gasping into Bumblebee’s mouth, tasting himself on Bumblebee’s glossa and the sweeping brush of Bumblebee’s finger over his node.   
  
Bumblebee vents. The thick length of his spike ruts over Thundercracker’s thigh. His fingers are sticky-wet against Thundercracker’s side.   
  
“I want you so much,” Bumblebee says over his lips and nuzzles into Thundercracker’s intake. “I’ve missed you so much.”   
  
Thundercracker’s spark throbs a heavy, hungry beat. He draws up his knees, traps Bumblebee between his thighs, rolls his hips to get his spike where it needs to be. He shivers as the head of it bumps over his swollen node, teasing him.   
  
“Spike me before I change my mind.” Thundercracker’s frame trembles with the echoes of his last release, his spark thrumming with emotions. He doesn’t know how Bumblebee always manages to do this to him.   
  
He’s not complaining.   
  
Bumblebee licks the corner of his mouth. “You’re not going to,” he teases, but he obeys.  
  
He slides down – the height difference is a little irritating sometimes – and fits himself between Thundercracker’s thighs. His hands are full of worship as they sweep Thundercracker’s sides, his hips, his thighs. They slip inward, thumbs framing Thundercracker’s valve, one brushing over his node and sending a sharp ache of need through Thundercracker’s lines.   
  
“I’m going to spark you,” Bumblebee says in a quiet, reverent tone. His thumb rubs gentle circles over Thundercracker’s node as he rolls his hips, the head of his spike teasing the inner rim of Thundercracker’s valve. “You’re going to carry my sparkling, a little Seekerlet, and everyone’s going to know how much I love you.”   
  
Thundercracker’s spark swells. It’s the first time Bumblebee’s ever said that word aloud. It’s been an unspoken truth between them, both refusing to admit it because the war tends to tear down and destroy anything so precious. Neither of them have dared take that risk.   
  
It’s different now. The world is different now. There’s a future, however tentative. The risk is worth it.   
  
Affection surges through Thundercracker’s field. He tightens his thighs around Bumblebee’s hips, rocking upward to encourage Bumblebee deeper.   
  
“Yes,” he moans. “I love you, too.”   
  
Blue optics glimmer. Bumblebee cradles Thundercracker’s hips, and then he slides into Thundercracker, slowly so slowly, like he’s trying to sample each and every node. Bumblebee’s so thick, his spike broad and smooth, and a shiver starts in Thundercracker’s feet and travels up his entire frame.   
  
He wishes he could kiss Bumblebee, but their height difference makes that impossible. All Thundercracker can do is shove his knuckles against his mask, muffle his embarrassing cries, as Bumblebee drives him crazy with slow, savoring pleasure. Thundercracker pulses affection in his field, feels Bumblebee respond in kind, with something softer. Sweeter.   
  
With love.   
  
Thundercracker groans. His spark fills the entirety of his chassis, his chestplates juttering beneath the cover his cockpit.   
  
“We can have the ceremony now, if the truce lasts,” Bumblebee murmurs, his hands sweeping reverently over Thundercracker’s armor, his hips moving in slow, deep rolls, dragging pleasure with every thrust. “Will you be my conjunx, Thundercracker?”   
  
“Yes. Oh, Primus, yes,” Thundercracker moans, feeling dizzy. The agreement spills out of him without hesitation.   
  
How long, he wonders. How long has been craving something exactly like this?   
  
His valve ripples around Bumblebee’s spike, clutching at the charge being offered, his frame quickly building to another overload, so soon after the first. It’s all Bumblebee’s fault. He has to be here like this, so sweet and adoring, so focused on Thundercracker’s pleasure as though it’s the only thing that has ever mattered.   
  
He’s the only one who’s ever made Thundercracker feel like this. As if he’s valued for who he is, not what he is and what he can do.   
  
“Good.” Bumblebee tilts forward, mouths Thundercracker’s cockpit, presses gentle kisses to it. “Will you overload for me now, sweetspark? Will you let me taste your pleasure?”   
  
The rattles start in his knees and work their way through his entire frame. Charge crackles over his armor like blue-white fire, lapping out from his substructure, as his valve spasms and he overloads again, thoughts going blank in white-hot bliss. He feels like he’s floating on a tide of pleasure and it’s not until he feels a squeeze around his fingers that he realizes Bumblebee’s took his hand and laid kisses across his knuckles.   
  
Primus. The adoration in the move sends another, smaller release through Thundercracker’s spark. He crashes back into his frame, shivering and panting, lying limp in the berth beneath the hot, silken weight of his minibot lover.   
  
“So beautiful,” Bumblebee murmurs, his optics blown wide, his hips pushed deep. “You feel so good around me, Thunder. I love it, love this, love you.” He moans, ex-vents hot and damp over Thundercracker’s knuckles, and then he’s hunching, thrusting, spike spattering hot and liquid inside Thundercracker.   
  
It’s a pleasure that has no end. He clutches Bumblebee as close as he can and curls forward, snatching Bumblebee’s head for a sloppy, warm kiss. He has to brace one hand behind himself to keep his balance, the other curling around Bumblebee, teasing those cute horns on his head as he does.   
  
Bumblebee shivers and deepens the kiss, his glossa sweeping into Thundercracker’s mouth, his field wrapping tightly around them both.   
  
“I’m going to carry your sparkling,” Thundercracker says against his lips. “I’m going to carry  _our_  Seekerlet. And everyone’s going to know how much I love you.”   
  
Bumblebee clutches him close, the rise of warmth in his field echoing Thundercracker’s. It’s as much a promise as the vows they would have made in a conjunx ceremony. It is truth.   
  
“I’m not leaving again,” Thundercracker promises, barely louder than a murmur.   
  
“You’d better not,” Bumblebee says, pressing their foreheads together, their frames as linked as their fields. “I’m going to hold you to it.”  
  
Thundercracker nuzzles him. “It’s a promise.” Or a vow. Whichever has more weight. He doesn’t want to walk away from this again.   
  
He’ll fight to keep it. He’ll fight the world. He’s tired of war. This is the only thing still worth fighting for.   
  
This is home.   
  
****


	4. Epilogue - Prowl - Formulaic Expression

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since this is just a wee little epilogue, I went ahead and decided to post it. :)

The program works far better than expected, Prowl muses as he flips through his datapad, reviewing all of the successful sparkings thus far and their respective parentage.   
  
Over two dozen! He’s optimistically hoped for a half-dozen at best. The war has been long and bitter. Grievances have been born on both sides. Resentment had practically sealed itself into their sparks.   
  
The amount of cross-factional sparklings is even more impressive. Of the two-dozen sparked mechs, half have been born of cross-factional connections. The amount of discreet relationships coming to light in the wake of the truce might have something to do with it. So many have gone unnoticed over the centuries, though Prowl is not at all surprised.   
  
The war had divided them, friends and family and co-workers.   
  
Their first cross-factional conjunx ceremony had been a week ago. Prowl hadn’t even realized Thundercracker and Bumblebee knew each other or had crossed paths during the war. It is surprising how much he hadn’t known.   
  
Prowl leans back, his hand naturally wandering to his abdomen, still flat for now, but as the life within his gestational tank grew, so would his abdomen. Internals would have to shift aside. His plating would extend, however slightly. It would be obvious enough to the average Cybertronian, not so much to others.   
  
Let it never be said Prowl would not undergo that which he asks of his subordinates.   
  
If there’s anything that’s going to cement this peace, it’s the way at least half of both armies have eagerly given into the Repopulation Project, preparing the way for new life, growing both protective and determined. No one wants to see the little ones come to harm.   
  
Which isn’t to say there has been no grumbling. Quite a few mechs on both sides of the line have expressed their displeasure over the surge of newsparks. They want nothing to do with raising the next generation. That’s fine. Prowl has plenty of other tasks for those who don’t want to be parents. There is so much work, no one will lack for duties.   
  
It’s a good thing. A very good thing.   
  
Prowl can’t help but be pleased with himself. And yes, perhaps Shockwave is also one to thank for this.   
  
This being the truce, the Repopulation Plan, and the sparkling in Prowl’s tank. Praxians might not be as fertile as Seekers – Prowl had only been the fifth mech to wind up sparked – but he’d been one of the first. He’d intended to pave the way.   
  
Oh well.   
  
At least the truce is all but set in duryllium. A carrying Megatron is even more effective than a warlike one. Surprising had been the sire, and possessive, too. Sunstreaker tends to growl if anyone gets too close to Megatron, and Prowl has never seen him look so fierce.   
  
It’s a bit unnerving.   
  
Sideswipe finds it hilarious.   
  
Prowl is simply glad that Sideswipe has yet to sire or carry. He seems to be in no hurry, and Prowl hopes for everyone’s sake that Sideswipe waits for the second or third wave of sparkings. The spawn of Sideswipe will no doubt be twice as aggravating as the mech himself.   
  
Still, it’s a good plan. A good end. Prowl couldn’t be more proud.   
  
He smiles and reaches for his datapad, getting back to work, his spark soaring with delight. He’s where he’s always wanted to be. He can’t possibly be happier.   
  
The war is over.   
  
Long live peace. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of what had been sponsored. I'm going to mark it finished, but something tells me I'm not quite done with this series, so you may see a few more chapters added here and there as I play with some fun pairings. Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback, as always, is welcome and appreciated.


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